Before the Fall
by lilkyonkyon
Summary: Draco hadn't meant for it to happen that way. He never really meant for anything to happen, not to anyone. AR seventh year. Major character death. Rated for language. Oneshot.


I find myself rather proud of this fic, so I hope you all enjoy it!

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**Before the Fall**

He moved only when he was certain that they had all left him behind. He wasn't sure if his side had won, or lost, or if the battle was even over. In all honesty, he wasn't quite sure which side he was on in the first place. He didn't care. Maybe he had his own side, one that belonged to him and no one else. He'd heard some of the others talk about fighting for ideals — nonsense like freedom, or justice, or other words that they probably couldn't define if he'd ever bothered to ask about them. He was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, everyone fought for the right to live. That wars were just big, overblown struggles to survive. So he was inclined to believe that he had won this particular battle.

Draco still didn't feel quite right, though. No one was around as he stumbled out of the woods, breathing roughly. The green of the forest was making him positively sick. His teeth were chattering, but he wasn't cold. His feet were carrying him toward the lake, and his body lurched after them. Around his wand, his knuckles were white.

When had this war started, anyhow? Was it really in fourth year, when Diggory had turned up dead? (Draco's stomach turned.) Was it then, or had Potter ever _truly_ ended the war that night, sixteen years ago? The Dark Lord's disappearance afterwards seemed more like a momentary retreat, not an outright loss. In all likelihood, Draco had been born into a world still being ravaged by war, bred to be a good ickle soldier that followed each order he was given. And he had followed them. Merlin, he'd done everything in his power to become what they wanted him to be. It made him proud to be a part of the Dark Lord's plans before. He'd felt so distinguished. Now he only felt disgusted.

His body, too preoccupied with thought, lost track of his feet and he pitched forward, slamming his fists into the damp ground. He heaved, and bits of his lunch slopped onto the ground in front of him. It didn't make him feel better. The grass was too green. Draco rolled to his feet, stumbling, still trying to get to the lake. He wasn't sure why. He didn't want to think about it. Truly, he just wanted to get away from the forest, from his mistake.

A mistake in battle cost lives. He'd been told that before, he couldn't remember who said it. Whoever it was, the bloke was right. Draco had made a mistake, and someone had died. But he wasn't supposed to know the person. It was supposed to be a stranger, an unknown, someone ugly and violent. Some brutish man who was ready to kill him. Some muggle or muggle-born with gnashing teeth and rolling eyes.

But when he had turned, it wasn't that wild, ugly face he had always imagined. It was a familiar face. A frightened one. The words had escaped his lips before he could stop them. His wand aimed on its own.

And then it was all over.

He hadn't meant for it to happen that way. He never really meant for anything to happen, not to anyone. Especially not to her. For all his insults, for all his complaints, he had wanted her to stay the same, to always be someone he could hate. He wanted her to survive. But nothing stayed the fucking same. And he'd panicked, and he'd said the bloody words he'd been taught. Green had enveloped his vision. Brilliant, bright green. One second she had been standing, the same as she'd always been, full of pride and righteousness and life. The next second she was dead.

Hermione Granger.

Murdered.

Yes, murdered. It didn't matter to him if this was a war or not, he would still call it murder. Besides, there was always a war on. Always, since the beginning of time, maybe. Just because people called something a war and something else peace didn't make a difference. Death wasn't any less a tragedy in one than in the other. Maybe it was even more of a tragedy during war, because fewer mourned. Death was normal in war. Those fighting were expected to stand up and move on.

Draco could not move on. His feet were moving, yes, but he saw only green, felt only her. A tragedy. The death of a seventeen-year old girl. Taken out in a forest by an idiotic boy who was scared enough to hide behind a log, eyes tightly shuttered. A bright girl, clever, and generous. He'd known she was generous. And that her middle name was Jean, and she had a mother and a father, but no other siblings. His mind began to scramble for more information about her, as if the secret to her life lay in his sporadic thoughts. She had two best friends. She enjoyed reading. She had always been afraid of failure.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and heaved again. Nothing came out, and he coughed. The green of the grass was overwhelming his senses. Green, green as far as he could see, and the damned lake was nowhere in view. His feet stopped abruptly. Draco tipped his chin back until the only thing in front of him was the swirling grey of the sky. Scottish weather, he'd been told. The sky was supposed to look like that.

He allowed himself to fall back into the long tangles of grass, to fall until his eyes were overcome with every shade of grey, that and nothing else. Draco longed to erase her from his memory, but each moment only brought stronger emotions with it. He'd been so cruel to her, hadn't he? So unfair. He'd called her names, hexed her, cursed her. He'd never treated anyone else so nastily. Before, he'd thought it was hate, but that was what he'd been told, wasn't it? That he had to hate her. Maybe it wasn't that at all. He'd never know, now.

The tickle of the grass against his palms reminded him of her hair. He'd touched it after he murdered her. Morbid curiosity, he supposed. Draco had always wondered what her hair felt like. If touching a mudblood at all was as horrible as his father had always told him. If his skin would shrivel, if his nails would reek of garbage.

Nothing had happened to him. Her hair was soft, softer than he expected. The curls were damp with humidity, and they sprung up when he released them. Her eyes were still open. They seemed to watch him with trepidation, mistrust, and he couldn't ever blame her for staring at him like that.

He'd almost cried then, right in the middle of the battle. Wouldn't he have looked ridiculous, sitting there, his hand clenched in her soft locks, sobbing his eyes out? He had wanted to cry because everything was so _different_. He knew it wasn't her fault. Granger was always the same. No, it was him. He was so fucking different, and it transfigured everything he saw. Sitting in front of him was the same girl he'd known for seven years, but she was not a mudblood anymore. She was a human being, with blood like his, like anyone's. With two eyes, and a mouth, and two arms and two good legs. She was as good as anyone, and he was as good as she was. Everyone was the fucking same, inside and out. People just looked at the wrong things.

So Draco hid her. He hid himself. And then he waited for everyone to leave. Because they didn't see what he could see now — they didn't see humanity. They only saw threats. They looked at people like Hermione Granger and imagined monsters, killers, when it was really their own reflection. They were scared that everyone else was like them.

The wind sighed, and the grasses answered with a whisper. The grey above him swirled.

Draco sat and watched it all, seeing, for the first time, everything as it should be.

It looked like rain.

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Serious stuff! I hope you liked it; please review with any comments!


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